Chaos is Progress

Tuesday, November 05, 2013

I couldn't wait to vote. I first recognized that I had political leanings and passionate beliefs when I was 7 years old and I stayed up all night to watch the election returns in 1984. I sobbed when Walter Mondale lost... mostly because I couldn't believe that people didn't want to vote for a girl! (Look it up, folks.)

When I was 18, I rushed to register to vote. I was so excited when the League of Women Voters came to my high school for a registration drive. Don't believe me? I present to you, Exhibit A, my original voter registration form from 1995 (because, yes, I still have it):

In 18 years as a registered voter, I have missed one election. It was this last summer and I missed the polls closing because I was busy being political somewhere else. Luckily, the bond issue I supported passed without my help, but it haunts me. Oh yes, that election haunts me.

Today was Election Day. My favorite day of the year! One of the things that bugs me most about living where I live is that my polling location changes every election. Tonight I drove to no fewer than seven previous polling places before I landed at the right one. But I made it: I voted. And now I get to sit back, enjoy my apple beer, and watch the returns from an off-year election roll in (they don't really roll from Weber County, but I'm watching these other states like a mad fiend!).

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Three days ago I stood in a line. In many ways it was completely unremarkable.

{I've stood in lines for things before and they usually involve the same pattern: first, I feel uncomfortable about how close the person behind me is standing; second, I move slightly askew of the line to make more space between that person and me (seriously!! Back up, dude!); and, third, I make a completely inappropriate comment to the person behind me.}

However, in many ways, this line was completely different from any other line I had ever stood in.

It was populated by some of the bravest people I will ever meet.

It began with a prayer and a song.

It stretched for more than a city block.

And, it was formed with the knowledge that its destination would most likely be nowhere.

I thought I had prepared myself for the exercise in futility. I was prepared for the most likely scenario, that the group would be told, "No." But I wasn't prepared for a few things.

I wasn't prepared for the hope I saw in the eyes of the women standing around me.

I wasn't prepared for the scores of boys and men who would be ushered past our line of 200 women.

I wasn't prepared for the surge of hope that welled up inside me as I approached the door.

And, as a woman in 2013, I don't know if you can ever prepare yourself to hear the words, "For men and boys only."

And yet, there it was, my inequality was reflected in the face of every boy and man who walked past me. It was hard to see because so many of them averted their eyes. Others scoffed. Some scowled. And a few looked genuinely bothered by the situation.

And so, I add this line to the others I have stood in in my life. But this one is burned in my heart and has changed the way I view my faith and my people. They are infinitely more than I had imagined. Some are more judgmental, more harsh, and more afraid.

While others have shown themselves to be more courageous, more loving, and more inspired.

Friday, October 04, 2013

Every so often, very rarely in fact, comes a moment in life with two stark possibilities: everything could go perfectly, or one thing could wobble and the whole thing comes crashing down. It's like Jenga, only with your whole world.

I am standing on the front end of one of those moments. It feels as though I am about to walk through a whirling dervish - where I will either walk through unscathed, or I will take one wrong step and be trampled. The good news is, if it's the first, I will have an amazing story to tell. The better news? If it's the second, and I get trampled, I will know almost immediately who my true friends and compatriots are in life.

So to all of you who are going to walk with me through this swirly-twirly-moment, I say thank you. And sorry for getting your hand all sweaty.

For those of you who are cheering me on, I say thank you. That's it, because there are no words to describe how grateful I am for your support.

For those of you who are watching with a disapproving glance, I say thank you. Your concern means that you love me and I hope you can remember that always.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

On a snowy Sunday morning in December, I sat on the end of a
pew, next to the wall, in the chapel of my Mormon ward house. My husband stood
at the front of the room, holding our brand new daughter in his arms,
surrounded by men in our family, a few male friends, and the bishopric of our
new ward. He spoke sacred words and blessed and named our child. It was
beautiful to hear. But I have no idea what it looked like, because I was in the
congregation. Sitting in a seat on the edge of a pew, like I was holding up the
wall.

One cold Saturday in late November, I leaned against a wall
trying to get a glimpse of my daughter’s baptism while my husband served as an
official witness to her big moment. She
was in the water with her uncle—he had never married and had no children, so
she wanted him to have a chance to baptize someone—and I was in the crowd. I
was straining my neck around a corner above the font, hoping to see her with my
own eyes, instead of through the heads of our friends and family. I saw it in
the mirror over the pool of water. As I clung to the brick, like I was holding
up the wall.

On March 14, 2010, my 12 year-old son sat in a chair in the
middle of the bishop’s office. My husband stood in a circle with his brothers
and his dad, our bishopric, and some ward acquaintances who would soon be our
son’s youth group leaders. I sat in a chair against the wall, and listened to
the prayer they offered as they ordained my son to the Aaronic priesthood in
our church. I did not lay my hands on his head, nor did I offer any words of
hope and faith in the prayer. I sat in a chair pushed to the edge of the room,
like I was holding up the wall.

These were three beautiful days in the lives of my children.
They were welcomed into the world, into the church, and into the priesthood
that we hold sacred. My husband was there to usher them in—he is a wonderful
man, worthy of such a task—and I am grateful for that. But I was not allowed to
participate in any way, other than as a spectator. I was literally placed at
the edge of these rooms, as though my only purpose was to hold up the wall and
keep it from caving in.

At the risk of sounding whiny, I am just going to say it: I
am tired of holding up the wall. The wall that keeps women from priesthood ordination
is the same wall that keeps women from any position of authority or true
decision-making power in the Church. It has separated me from my true potential
as a daughter of Heavenly Parents. It has limited my service to the kingdom of
God because of my gender. This wall has left me powerless and voiceless in the
Church I chose as a teen, and has filled me with fear and dread as an adult
with questions.

So, for me, and the women who came before me, and the women
who come after me, I have decided to do all that I can to tear down that wall.
If I have to do it brick by brick, I will. Women took a brick down in December
when, faced with threats and name-calling, we wore pants to church (GASP!). We
took another brick out when, after accusations of apostasy and pride, we wrote
letters to have a woman pray in General Conference (DOUBLE GASP!). Two bricks
down. And on Saturday, October 5th, I will aim for another brick,
when I walk quietly to a line for tickets to the priesthood session of General
Conference.

I do not do this to destroy the Lord’s house. I do not do
this to embarrass my leaders.

I do this because I believe that this wall is socially
constructed and not holy doctrine. I believe that this wall cuts through the
middle of the Lord’s house, dividing us. And only when it is knocked down, and
His people are able to serve fully together, will we truly be able to fulfill
His commandments.

Monday, September 23, 2013

When I was little I would constantly read my parents' yearbooks (and then my older sister's when she entered high school). I had them memorized - not exaggerating - and by the time I was 10, I could tell you exactly what I was going to every year that I was a Scot. I believed that the number of pages listed by my name in the index was an indicator of my school spirit. So, it is time for me to admit it:

I have school spirit.

(Lots and lots and lots of school spirit.)

I did not inherit this, my family-members were not obsessed like I was.

But I have always been a "jump into the deep end" kind of girl and I do not apologize.

If I were to calculate the number of hours I spent in that school,

it would be a crap-ton of hours (that's the official measurement, BTW).

And if I were to calculate the blood [lots, including a broken nose, a broken arm, and a knee surgery],

sweat [literal buckets full],

and tears [oh man, the true believers weep hardest] well, it would be incalculable.

Now that I have a Scot of my own,

I have found myself

completely thrown back into the fervor.

No. The fever.

It's horrifying for my son. I'm not sorry.His sisters will endure the same.I have no idea if any of you have ever experienced this type of mania, but if you have I would like to welcome you into the fold. Please do not be embarrassed. My obsession got me through high school. It drove me to achieve things I never thought possible and led to me to try new and exciting things.So, in honor of Iron Horse Week, and the fact that I will never wear orange and black. NEVER.I say to you:S! S! S-C-O! O! O! O-T-S!S-C-O! O-T-S!SCOTS!